The Front Porch

           TheTorrancefamilystoodtogetheronthelongfrontporchoftheOverlookHotelasifposingforafamilyportrait,Dannyinthemiddle,zipperedintolastyear’sfalljacketwhichwasnowtoosmallandstartingtocomeoutattheelbow,Wendybehindhimwithonehandonhisshoulder,andJacktohisleft,hisownhandrestinglightlyonhisson’shead.

           Mr.Ullmanwasastepbelowthem,buttonedintoanexpensive-lookingbrownmohairovercoat.Thesunwasentirelybehindthemountainsnow,edgingthemwithgoldfire,makingtheshadowsaroundthingslooklongandpurple.Theonlythreevehiclesleftintheparkinglotswerethehoteltruck,Ullman’sLincolnContinental,andthebatteredTorranceVW.

           "You’vegotyourkeys,then;"UllmansaidtoJack,"andyouunderstandfullyaboutthefurnaceandtheboiler?"

           Jacknodded,feelingsomerealsympathyforUllman.Everythingwasdonefortheseason,theballofstringwasneatlywrappedupuntilnextMay12-notadayearlierorlater-andUllman,whowasresponsibleforallofitandwhoreferredtothehotelintheunmistakabletonesofinfatuation,couldnothelplookingforlooseends.

           "Ithinkeverythingiswellinhand,"Jacksaid.

           "Good.I’llbeintouch."Buthestilllingeredforamoment,asifwaitingforthewindtotakeahandandperhapsgusthimdowntohiscar.Hesighed."Allright.Haveagoodwinter,Mr.Torrance,Mrs.Torrance.Youtoo,Danny.